To the muse

The idea

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The muse arrives pale, weak, whispering sorrow that burns speech; she lights the night and curses the day, takes every song away. Gift is chain: “I bleed in rhythm… You breathe in fire, / I drown in pain.” Still the follower goes through flame toward a “sacred name.”

Uplifting dark-techno-tinged trance can ritualize that abusive intimacy with art. Inspiration as torment one chooses—old Romantic problem in club clothes. Silent torment, sacred name: worship that knows the cost and pays anyway.